The Art of Discovery
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: One afternoon, whilst borrowing Molly Hooper's laptop, Sherlock discovers a most startling fact: her laptop isn't only stocked with cute kitten photos, but more X-rated content. The real shock, however, comes when he starts to think decidedly unintellectual thoughts as a result.


_**Author's Note: **Gifting this fic to **conchepcion**, who gave me the prompt of "Sherlock discovers porn on Molly's laptop", which I duly ran away with. Mature rating because Sherlock's brain is a perverted one._

* * *

Molly Hooper did not watch porn. That was a categorical certainty. In all the times he had deduced her, he had never allowed himself to think of Molly as a sexual being. At first, she was nothing more than a way to gain access to the lab. Nothing sexual there. Over the years, she had proved herself far more than that. She had been there in his hours of need. She had, essentially, saved his life, and not once but twice. He was more than happy to count her as a friend. But they were _friends_—there was nothing sexual in that either.

He barely wanted to touch any part of the laptop now situated in front of him. It sat there, a gleaming monster of technology, whispering secrets about Molly Hooper, opening doors to her personality that had, in the past, remained firmly closed.

There was, to be truthful, a slight intimidation felt by the consulting detective. She clearly preferred a man with a, um, sizable instrument. That was not to say that Sherlock wasn't proud of what biology had provided him with, but still. One could not help but compare. It was a sort of primal instinct. The man on screen moaned deeply, and Sherlock blinked. Was this what truly interested Molly Hooper, quiet pathologist at St. Bart's? Did she sit here, on this very bed and drink in the sight of a stranger pleasuring himself as she herself did the same? No, she would lie. Wouldn't she? The laptop by her side, her herself wrapped in her bed sheets, beaded sweat at her temple, her mouth falling open into a small "o" as her hand worked at—

"Sherlock? You still here?"

_Bollocks._ He clicked hastily at the window, but the image remained, frozen. Flashing up, adverts and offers and images all designed to show him, expose him. He clicked more frantically. She repeated his name, and her footsteps advanced towards the bedroom, and his heart leaped into his throat.

"Are you asleep? Because if you're asleep—"

"No." He slammed the laptop shut, discarding it, "I-I'm perfectly awake."

Her warm brown eyes peeked through the crack, her brow creased. Her gaze fell on the laptop.

"Sherlock," she sighed. "I've told you, bring your own to the – _wait_ – you look a little flushed." She opened the door by a sliver, biting at her bottom lip. The image of her, panting, biting savagely at _his_ bottom lip, her own mouth bruised from heated kisses, loomed up at him. He blinked, rapidly.

"Absolutely fine," he said, in answer to a question that hadn't yet been asked, and would never have been asked. He cleared his throat, standing to shrug on his coat. Ducking out of the flat, he threw only an "afternoon Molly" over his shoulder and traversed down the stairs, his coat tight around him and his mind cursing his biology for making walking home quite so difficult.

* * *

Friend. Friend. _Friend._ She's your _friend._

Her tongue swirled thoughtfully around the nib of her pen and she flicked a smile, a wicked, wanton smile that had him repeating his mantra all over again.

"Do you want to see it?" She spoke without looking up. He started at the question.

"_It?_"

"The body," she prompted, leaning forward. A flash of pink lace underneath her blouse and he was promptly glancing back to his microscope. She wouldn't unbutton her blouse in the middle of the lab. She was a _professional._ "Of the drowning victim. I was about to do the autopsy – if you wanted to come, you could."

An autopsy? Yes, an autopsy, yes. Just what he needed—needed to get rid of this maddening heat that had begun to stir so violently against his body. He shrugged on his coat.

"Might as well," he bit out. Taking it to be his usual abrasive manner, she laughed—the sound was lower, tantalisingly lower, than he'd ever imagined it—and turned.

"It'll most likely be boring for you,"—yes, boring, exactly what he needed—"as the cause of death is obvious. Won't be too hard, I'm sure."

Her eyes twinkled and she grabbed her clipboard, flying out of the lab to stride down the familiar path towards the morgue. The drowning victim was already laid out by the time they got there. Late 40s, male, morbidly obese with varicose veins and a bluish tinge to his skin, Sherlock stood opposite Molly and, as he often did, let his gaze flick over the body as she bustled around (her hips had never _swayed_ quite in that manner, surely?) and prepared to perform the autopsy.

"Autopsy #1569. Victim ID: John Raine. Ironic, really." The tape recorder whirred. "Anyway. The victim is male, late 40s, obese, suffering from – varicose veins."

She scooped her scalpel off the tray beside her, continuing to chatter. "Making the initial Y incision, penetrating deep into the victim's chest cavity—"

She paused, tilting her head. "Sherlock."

"Mm?" He glanced at her.

"You're – you're all red again. In your face." She slowly drew the scalpel over the victim's chest. "Are you sure you don't need a break?"

"No, not at all." He gritted his teeth. "Carry on, Molly."

* * *

He limped along beside her, his coat once more wrapped around his body, and his eyes zeroed in on the floor. Molly wandered happily along in front of him, more than unaware that her near constant use of the words "deep", "penetrating" and other seemingly innocuous and innocent words (who would've thought "moist" could prove so troublesome a word?) had proved a decidedly distracting strain on a certain part of Sherlock's anatomy. He had blinked them away, thought of the dullest cases he'd ever undertaken, even filed through his accounts, but her vivid pink lips and her lurid vocabulary had still burst through, flooding his mind with thoughts and fantasies that a consulting detective should never have had.

"God, I'm starving." She paused at the vending machine. "Do you want something, Sherlock?"

Nothing a vending machine could provide, that was for sure. She slipped the coins into the machine and punched in the number. When her preferred treat came rolling out of the tray, he let out an audible groan.

"For God's sake."

"Something wrong?" She popped the lolly straight into her mouth, methodically sucking at it. Friend, friend, _friend._ She was not sexual. She was just eating a lolly. Simply sucking, deftly drawing her tongue over the tip, wrapping her pink lips against the bright red-coloured sweet. Of all of the flavours in the entire world, she had to like strawberry.

"I saw you found the porn then?"

His head shot up, but she was calm as anything and only raised an eyebrow, still sucking, still tasting that damn lolly.

"What? You—"

Her eyes gleamed. Sliding the lolly from her mouth with a smack of her lips—dear _God_—she stepped forward, pressed her hand against his torso. No doubt she could feel his quickened pace of breathing, a pace which only increased when she leaned up and whispered keenly into his ear, a laugh in her voice. This time, he fully welcomed, with a heavy, contented sigh, the images that her words provided. It wasn't hard to realise what had been happening from the very moment he had discovered that video on her laptop: he had been fighting a battle against the wills of his lust and the words of Molly Hooper. She moved back, still eyeing him.

"Just something for you to think about." Turning away, her hand tucked into her pocket, she swanned off down the corridor, her ponytail swinging and her hips swaying beautifully.

Sherlock Holmes had never been so happy to lose.


End file.
